He said I like to jazz the sky Sometimes, you know See me some hardcore Detroit Drummer overdosing it Like intensely On proximal melodies Ghosting me some romantic moonlight Jigging up this wasteland Taking an axe to all the quotidian brainiac Entanglements of pigeon-freaking Sh**—
She said Brick it up, man, I’m not one of your ratty here-today- Gone-tomorrow charm-school Friends on anesthesia for the last stages Of their latest art-appreciation-activism Veering destitute of anything but ego- Maniacal mimetic devolution into hedonistic He**—
He said I want— She said I want—
They said —you
And the woman on the bench said That’s a wrap.
You can blame this beat offering on the “absurdist” mood I’m in right now. But don’t leave out Shay’s Word Garden and her celebratory list of randomly chosen words from the first issue of the recently returned CREEM magazine, known for its irreverent presence on the music scene.The word list from which we are to pick at least three for use, is as follows: anesthesia, axe, brainiac. brick, charm, Detroit, drummer, ghost, hardcore, intensely, jazz, overdose, pigeons, proximal, ratty, romantic, stages, transmissions, veering, wasteland. For more or less random poetry, check out dVerse’s OLN hosted by Björn.
A-lone, a-bed, a need to rise, arise, remembering, sighing to rise sight aroused, upraised
dawn-drawn in fulness of cloud tears of consummation, gathering
gathering, a communion of praise for One whose work completed upgathers to raise me, to rise,
arise, walk in new life.
Luke 5: 18-26And behold, some men were bringing on a bed a man who was paralyzed, and they were seeking to bring him in and lay him before Jesus, but finding no way to bring him in, because of the crowd, they went up on the roof and let him down with his bed through the tiles into the midst before Jesus. And when he saw their faith, he said, “Man, your sins are forgiven you.” And the scribes and the Pharisees began to question, saying, “Who is this who speaks blasphemies? Who can forgive sins but God alone?”
When Jesus perceived their thoughts, he answered them, “Why do you question in your hearts? Which is easier, to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven you,’ or to say, ‘Rise and walk’? But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins”–he said to the man who was paralyzed–“I say to you, rise, pick up your bed and go home.”
And immediately he rose up before them and picked up what he had been lying on and went home, glorifying God.
And amazement seized them all, and they glorified God and were filled with awe, saying, “We have seen extraordinary things today.”
To use the word "work" in a quadrille of 44 words is our Labor Day task from Lisa at dVerse. My labor? To look on the work of Christ Jesus upon the Cross for all who believe in Him.
You, compassion-clad, mudlark scavengers of world-weary souls
You, yourselves poor, despised, nobodies scorned3
Beloved of God, glory-bound
You
catch the light in golden cups of faith catch it, taste it, see how good His Word catch it freely with a living hope
catch sun-filled manna, multiplied grace peace as it settles like a priceless crown upon your head in splendor untarnished
catch the light with your open heart newborn soul with ears to hear Song of songs from Your Father’s throne
catch it as a prayer upon your tongue sounding the depths of Love unknown but for the babe in a manger born
catch the light and let faith loose kindled incense upward bound sent like sparks to heaven’s court
catch joy unspeakable, unbounded love the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost come in power to dwell with you
1 Peter 1:9 Peter, an apostle of Jesus Christ, To those who are elect exiles of the Dispersion in Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia, and Bithynia, according to the foreknowledge of God the Father, in the sanctification of the Spirit, for obedience to Jesus Christ and for sprinkling with his blood: May grace and peace be multiplied to you.
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God’s power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time.
In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith–more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire–may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ.
Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.
1The Beatitudes are characteristics and blessings listed in Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 5:1-12
2Romans 8:16-17 “The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs–heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him.”
31 Corinthians 1:26-29 “For consider your calling, brothers: not many of you were wise according to worldly standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God.”
section in bolditalics: Sammi's weekend writing prompt: 52 words, "Mudlarks" Eugi's weekly prompt: "Compassion" Have a blessed First Sunday of Advent everyone!
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt
and limit our words to 100 or less.
Click on the frog to read more stories.
Narrator: dorahak Background: Arctic White Noiseand Wind (link)
Judgment Day
Cur Deus homo.* Why? Blindly, we sail past the pinnacle of what we could be.
The cruise ship Earth is all fun and games. Whether the fun intended causes others misery or not isn’t part of the equation. The equation only includes playing gods, every individual for himself, the rich richer, the poor poorer because they were losers. Losers become slaves because that’s how the game is played.
Like the pharaohs of old, we will take the living into hell with us.
Out across the ice, I see Frankenstein chasing his monster. And the worm turns.
Judgment Day.
*Cur Deus Homo (Latin for “Why a God Human?”), usually translated Why God Became a Man, is a book written by Anselm of Canterbury in the period of 1094–1098. In this work he proposes the satisfaction view of the atonement.
In its preface, Anselm gives his reason for writing the book:
I have been often and most earnestly requested by many, both personally and by letter, that I would hand down in writing the proofs of a certain doctrine of our faith, which I am accustomed to give to inquirers; for they say that these proofs gratify them, and are considered sufficient. This they ask, not for the sake of attaining to faith by means of reason, but that they may be gladdened by understanding and meditating on those things which they believe; and that, as far as possible, they may be always ready to convince any one who demands of them a reason of that hope which is in us.
Preface to Cur Deus Homo, transl. Sidney Dean in St. Anselm
The beginning of the Cur Homo‘s prologue, from a 12th-century manuscript held at Lambeth Palace
Two shakers and ketchup A pinch of salt, a dash of pepper Dollop of sauce, a half mug of beer Ice water for awakening The dead will appear
The wine left in a glass Holds a hint and a promise Your laughter, “hold the pickle!” Still haunts something wicked Like you’ll never disappear
I will not cry when you come Shed no tear as you sit down But I will wonder anew As my undead love for you Refashions and reappears
Have I concocted a spell Unearthed memories Conjured a ghost? Appearances deceive In this deli, you live
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt
and limit our words to 100 or less.
Click on the frog to read more stories.
Salvador Dalí. (Spanish, 1904-1989). The Persistence of Memory. 1931
Five minutes ago insurance was on the phone something needed watching a chore couldn’t be ignored prescriptions waited in the hallway voices cluttered up the inbox the sun was breaking hot motes star-fished into eyes death landed on the floor space folded into halves you went into your room the music turned up loud in the spaces of my heart where you still pace and pray the speakers turned up high distance crumpling in my hand the clock stretched round a bend five minutes ago
For dVerse's Open Link Night 293 hosted by Lisa. Click on Mr. Linky and meet us there!
I want to start a poem like this: I am brown, very brown. Then I get writer’s block. Because now it’s out there.
There’s a story to tell, but it’s not poetic. It’s definitional. I have to define wheatish, fair, tan, light-skinned, black, white, and all the colors that separate you and me, and beat us into submission, into bearing the crimes of our color, even though not once have I cried because I was dark brown. But I have cried because you spoke to my skin color and not to me.
And tears are wordless, colorless. Their salt shorts out syllables, keyboards, laptops. Already I taste it on my tongue. So I eat the heart of a dragon and listen to the gossip of birds.
A blackbird flies south Its shadow falls on Mt. Fuji Western sun descends
Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849) “Tea house at Koishikawa. The morning after a snowfall”
Frank at dVerse asks us to write on Writer's Block for Haibun Monday.
The haibun form "consists of one to a few paragraphs of prose
—usually written in the present tense—that evoke an experience and are
often non-fictional/autobiographical. They may be preceded or followed
by one or more haiku—nature-based, using a seasonal image—that complement without directly repeating what the prose stated.
Click on Mr. Linky to join in!
Genre: Realism; Word count: 100
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt
and limit our words to 100 or less.
Click on the frog to read more stories.
Trade-off
— It looks fabulous! — What does? — Isn’t that heaven? — Those are elevators. — Can I go on one? — No. You have to take the stairs. You don’t have a golden pass. — Why not? — You can’t afford it. — But I have money! — It’s not just money. It’s talking a certain way, shopping at the approved stores, socializing with the proper sort, voting for the prescribed party. — Well, I’ll do all those things then. — Okay. But first I have to tape your mouth shut, blindfold you, tie up your legs and lobotomize you. — And then I’ll get to take the golden elevators? — Yes. — Okay.
You were four with a Daddy when you laid out dancing colors of pink, blue, green and purple
When you were four and a day the colors went orange viral of corona, corona everywhere
You sat half-hidden in shadow your diamond father stolen from you with black words like ICU
Now pink, blue, green and purple have fled a world of frightening red your mother widowed in white
And you are four and counting looking back at days of gray a rainbow shining over you: we pray
Reena at Xploration Challenge gives us an update on the four-year-old pictured above: “I came across a heart-wrenching picture of a drawing by a 4-year old, whose father [was] battling lung failure due to Covid in hospital. When asked what was it she had drawn, she said “Corona, Corona …. Everywhere Corona.” The entire family was infected, but all others have recovered…. She lost her father today. Her mother, whom I see as an exceptionally strong woman, fought till the end, staying afloat with her Buddhist beliefs and chanting “Nam myth renge Kyo.” It kept her going, if nothing else. She is totally deflated now, after the incident. She, who led a fatherless life (her father being a drug-addict), just uttered the words ‘My daughters will meet the same fate.'”
a rose to you and you and you dear readers that stumbled onto this page and familiar friends who’ve long remained through drought or storm as balmy days faithful ones who exchange the fruits gleaned from weedy words and pruned vines some tangy to the taste or sweetly spiced all enlivened with the sunlit labor of moments transcribed to screens of dispersed bytes to be received like petals furled and unfurled as if a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose when given in love
Floral display in front of St Paul’s Cathedral, London, August 2020; Copyright Debbie Smyth; Used by permission
Unspoken Stretches
The newly sprung Black-Eyed Susans, the weighty towers of St. Paul’s, Touch the sky equally, centuried grandiose the one, the other idly, Like the newborn in her pram reaching talcumed arms to a light blue Or the redoubtable keen-eyed woman, confined within, searching clouds, Hope-stretched each, bodies strung diversely, each her own, Stalwart with suffering and age, supple green in yearning: My God, not to touch the sky, but that You would touch our faces And by that material touch, transfigure space and time to glory, joy unspeakable.
2 Corinthians 3:18And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.
Revelation 22:20He who testifies to these things says, “Surely I am coming soon.” Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!
There’s no news but breeds new fears
In the flickering light as dusk falls
In the last cry of a distant bird
In the misshapen shadows of the unseen
Within cloistered walls.
Bated breath and heaving sighs
The chill alarm of a sickness bred
In a distant lab, a plague let loose
Not of locusts or frogs but airborne
Contagion, the ghost of times gone.
In the night an insistent distress
A job lost, and mouths to feed,
A waiting game for a government check
One nightmare subsides only to waken
Another in the fell dark.
A manic wind pulls the screen door free
What have we let in, what have we to do;
Across the street, above the lampposts
A twinkling starry host and the watchful moon
Shine their peace.
So happy to share with you another short story from Wallie’s Wentletrap, this time published in the current Summer 2017 issue of The Sonder Review. The story “Technitos,” can also viewed here, and will particularly interest those with a bent for science fiction (androids, techs, & such) but is finally a deeply moving tale about, as the editors of the SR put it, just what it means to be human. So take a look & see if it isn’t worth your time!
It’s a rickety, rollicking ride I’m on Reading Uncle’s “Our Mutual Friend” On the tide of the Thames as it rolls along Dragging me in its mysterious wake With Veneerings and Rimtys and inspectors That lurk behind the John Harmons, who as easily Could be: the Annikovs or Huangs, or Pillais Or Chandras hawking rumors by the Ganges In the myriad scenario of humanity’s flow From the pen of a master storyteller, caught In the blood-spun net of familiar lives Of desperation, pathos, or tartuffery Spent on the banks of labyrinthian rivers That wend to shores around the world And stay to balance on my fingertips.
An illustration from Charles Dickens, Our Mutual Friend (1864–65)
If an author needs a reader
To see with different eyes
The words that she has written
Which once were on her heart,
The reader needs the author
To show her other worlds
That only words can offer
As a bridge to different hearts.
Still better is the Author
Who became the Word in flesh
And walked among the suffering,
Our griefs upon His heart,
Who with divine compassion
Bore our sins upon His cross
Then wrote in broken hearts
His unending song of Love.
Dreams from a Pilgrimage 